


At a Loss

by GwendolynnFiction



Series: The Words Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: American Sign Language, BAMF John, Deaf Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:23:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2357723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynnFiction/pseuds/GwendolynnFiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'Words of One Syllable'. After the events of the Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock and John go about solving the Moriarty dilemma in vastly different ways. Meanwhile Sherlock tries to win back John's trust without alerting the world that he's alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Part II 

Chapter 1 

John followed Sherlock into the living room, wondering what the hell had just gone down. The trial had been a bizarre mix of watching Moriarty sit passively and interpreting for Sherlock. The court had discovered that, _of course,_ the insane genius detective didn't understand BSL or the interpreter they'd provided. He hadn't liked Moriarty staring at his hands as he'd struggled through the questions. The man had smirked at him afterward, like he'd just handed the bastard some great treat. 

"-Bank -England. -Tower -London. -P-E-N-T-O-N-V-I-L-L-E. -Our -country; -three -place -most -secure. -Six weeks ago -M-O-R-I-A-R-T-Y -enter. -No idea -how?, why?" John summarized, dropping himself into his chair. Sherlock started to pace but he kept his eye on him. "-All -we -know -what? -we know -" 

"He ended up in custody," Sherlock finished for him, nodding like they'd come to some great resolution. 

"-That; -finish," John protested, annoyed by the whole damn day. 

"Stop what?" Sherlock asked, looking baffled. 

"-That -look," John answered, gesturing at the man's face. 

"Look?" Sherlock asked, apparently lost. 

_I'm stupider than you, get used to it._

"-You -that -look -again," John complained. 

"Well, I can't see it, can I?" Sherlock asked, before nodding at him like that was covered and going back to staring at his damn fingertips, apparently trying to figure out whatever leap of understanding came out of 'he ended up in custody'. 

John nodded toward the mirror and Sherlock glanced into it. 

_That look,_ John thought. _You have to let me know what's going on if I'm going to help you._

"It's my face," Sherlock answered, sounding annoyed now. 

"-Yes, -expression, -look at it. -Your -face -say -'-what happen? -we -both -know'," John explained. 

Sherlock blinked. 

"Well, we do," he answered. 

"-No. -I -not. -That -explain -why -expression -annoying." 

"If Moriarty wanted the jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's still in prison right now is because he _chose_ to be there," Sherlock explained, starting to pace again. "Somehow this is part of his scheme." 

John nodded and settled into his chair, trying to think of what he could do to help that wasn't thinking. Sherlock obviously understood Moriarty's twisted way of thinking far better than he ever would. 

~~/~~ 

The trial wasn't going well. If it weren't for how bloody obvious Moriarty's involvement had been, the P.A. might have actually managed to cock it up enough for the case to last years. As it was, John went to work every day and watched the case unfold on his phone and dragged himself home every night to a very crotchety Sherlock Holmes who utterly refused any more food or drink than that which would sustain him. 

John did his best, staring at Sherlock's walls of photos and criminal contacts to try and figure out what, exactly, Sherlock was working on. Piecing together Moriarty's network, apparently, but Sherlock didn't stop to explain. The only evidence he had of progress at all were the waves of exalted shouts and furious rampages that took the man by turn. 

"-We -together?" John asked, staring at where Sherlock was lying on his back on the couch. 

"What?" Sherlock snapped, barely turning his head to better look at him. John settled back into his chair. 

"-We -together? -Three weeks ago -up til now -not touch. -List of three; -first, -not kiss, -second, -not fuck, -third, not talk. -We -act -like -flatmates," John complained. 

"We are flatmates, John," Sherlock explained condescendingly, shifting slightly on the couch. John scoffed, frustrated and trying not to go overwrought with that and think the man had broken it off without ever telling him. It wouldn't be out of character. 

He rubbed his hands down his face roughly. 

"-No, -we -partner," he argued. "-Or -least, -suppose -partner." 

Sherlock glanced over at him, looking concerned and John felt his breathing stop for a moment, scared. Surely the man still wanted - 

"Am I supposed to kiss you, then? Would that be better? Because this is a complicated case and -" Sherlock started. 

_He's still with me._ John nodded swiftly, letting himself relax again. 

"-No," he answered Sherlock, shaking his head. "-You -don't want -touch -me, -don't touch -me." 

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. The man nodded suddenly and went back to staring at the ceiling. John growled to himself and had to wave at the man. 

"-This -about -you -not talk -me. -I -your -partner. -I help you. -If -you -not talk -me, -I -useless. -Happen -something; -you -need -tell me," John ranted. Sherlock blinked at him before opening his mouth in that 'ah' of realization. 

"I wondered when this would happen," he said cryptically and turned back to the ceiling. 

Great. 

John waved again. 

"-happen -what?" John demanded. 

"When your pride would catch up to you. I knew it would happen eventually," Sherlock stated, his voice too light, almost cheerful in his realization. "You don't like tagging behind. You shouldn't worry, it's a normal emotion. It was much more unusual that you didn't seem to have it." 

Sherlock swung his legs up and around to sit up on the couch, focusing fully on him now for the first time in weeks. 

"There is nothing else I can offer you, John. I can not explain every step of my logic at every turn. How much work would be lost under such a regimen?" he explained slowly, looking every bit as awkward as he had at Angelo's the first night, saying he was married to his work. 

_He's preparing to break up with me._

"-No," John answered. "-Pride -not -need. -I -not help -much -with -thought. -Know -that. -That -alright. -But -this -case -involve -me. -Danger where? -you -need -tell -me. -Let -me -fight. -You -know -case, -I help you. -Something -you -don't know -I know. -I -don't help -with -puzzle. -I -help -with -everything -else. -You -need -me. -We -good -partner. -But -only -if -you -talk with me." 

Sherlock rolled over onto his back, further away so he couldn't see. 

"Fuck," John cursed, throwing his hands up. The man was infuriating. Sherlock always was, but in this moment John just wanted a man who'd share his life with him. John got up from his chair, wanting to be anywhere else and headed for the stairs. He slammed the door on the way out, wishing Sherlock could hear it. 

~~/~~ 

Moriarty was better at this. That much was clear from the court case. The man knew people; he was like Mycroft, played them like so many strings. Sherlock knew puzzles better, that was obvious from the solid winning streak he'd had before they'd ended up in that pool, but Moriarty had changed the game to suit his strengths now. They weren't playing with puzzles, they were playing with people. 

Sherlock turned toward the ceiling, watching the dust fly overhead. John had slammed the door. He wished he had no connections but Mycroft again. That had been a wonderful existence, a safe existence, where the only one who could be hurt was the most powerful man in the country and not easily fooled. 

Moriarty was playing with John now and it was working. John was talking about them being partners – about an 87% chance he was either looking for marriage or a break up from as far as Sherlock had tallied such conversations. And then he'd slammed the door -angry, then. Not good, and Sherlock was supposed to do something -stay, leave him alone, follow him, plead, touch him somehow? - there was no clear way to know _what,_ which meant there was a high chance he'd chosen wrong. 

He couldn't play that game with Moriarty. He'd never win it. He needed to focus on the case, Moriarty's web, and tear it down before Moriarty took everything from him. He didn't want it to be just Mycroft and him again. 

~~/~~ 

Sherlock pulled his hands through his hair. There was a time limit, based in how long John's faith in him would hold out against all evidence, and he had no idea how long it'd last. He breathed slowly, forcing his heart to calm as he refocused on the problem before him. Moriarty was being released within the hour, he was sure of it. The trial was ending; he could see it in his mind, the judge advising the jury. 

"You must find him guilty," Sherlock muttered to himself and closed his eyes. There was little to be gained from going to prison. No, Moriarty would stay out of jail. It was time for the next part of their battle. The verdict would come out in his favor – likely determined by duress but there were other means, too many to determine the exact method Moriarty would chose. 

John would be shocked by it. Sherlock had little doubt. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Sherlock opened his eyes. John, no doubt. Sherlock pulled himself up, deciding to make the tea himself. Mrs. Hudson was out to the store and he wanted the tea hot. He hid the evidence wall and played violin while he waited. There was no point starting on any of his experiments when he had so little time. He had to beat Moriarty at this game. He'd never find another John. It was this battle or he'd live his life out alone. 

He kept the mirror by his periphery vision to wait for the man's arrival and Moriarty didn't disappoint. Sherlock put down his bow when he glimpsed the door's shadow slide slightly. The door had been nudged. Moriarty pushed it open with a single hand and stood in the doorway, apparently waiting for him to turn. 

"Most people knock," Sherlock commented, though it wasn't true – at least not for that door. "But then, you're not most people I suppose," he added, just to show off. He pulled his violin from his shoulder and moved to put it away in the case on the mantle. 

"Kettle's just boiled," he offered. 

"-Y-O-H-A-N-N -S-E-B-A-S-T-I-A-N, -if -hear -that -appalled," Moriarty mentioned, grabbing an apple. 

Yohann Sebastian -almost certainly 'Bach', made more likely by the fact that he was playing the man's first sonata. Appalled -why? Two options – because he'd played it badly or because he'd cut it off. Moriarty glanced around the apartment, not looking impressed. 

"-You -mind?" he asked, glancing at the chairs. 

"Please," Sherlock offered, gesturing to John's chair. Moriarty took the other. A power play, and a strangely trivial one. Why? 

Sherlock sat across from the man, still curious. 

"-You -know, -he -on -death -bed, -die -soon. -Son -play -piano, -his -piece. -Bach -listen, -listen, -listen. -Before -piece -end, -boy -stop, -" 

"And the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano, and finished it," Sherlock said, doing his best to hide his surprise. Moriarty didn't only speak sign language – he spoke _their_ sign language. How long had he been watching them? Yet again Moriarty proved himself one of the only men in the world Sherlock could understand. 

_Would I have joined him, if it weren't for John?_

It was possible. He wanted to prove himself to the man, wanted to watch what would happen if they played this game with eachother, see the sparks fly – but he'd lose John. 

"-Melody -not finish; -he -not tolerate," Jim added. 

"Neither can you. That's why you've come," Sherlock finished, getting up walk to the tea table. Did the man think he was too slow to understand? That could be useful. 

"-But -honest. -You -tiny bit -happy," Moriarty demanded before he cut into his apple. 

"What, with the verdict?" Sherlock asked, pouring his tea. Nothing else made sense. But Moriarty wanted to underestimate him and Sherlock liked that idea just as well. He had to beat this man. 

"-Your -world; -I -there -again," Moriarty answered. 

_That's true._

He wanted to play. Moriarty gazed up into his eyes as Sherlock passed him to sit down. 

_He's enamored of me._ That could be useful too. God, he wanted to watch the sparks fly. One game he couldn't play, with the only man in the world who could challenge him. 

_John is worth more._

Why? 

It made no sense. Why was his partner worth more than the best opponent he'd ever have? 

"-Every -fairy -story -need -villain -old -school. -You -need -me -or -you -nothing. -Why? -We -alike, -you -me. -But -you -boring. -Side -angels, -you -there," Moriarty drew a picture with his hands, showing the angels lined up side by side and pointing to where Sherlock sat, an angel amongst them all. This was how sign was supposed to look, a whole story painted with color, not a list of words. That was obvious, and after months John couldn't do it at all. 

Sherlock picked up his cup, pretending to give himself time to think. It was obvious, John would win, John was _everything._ And Moriarty likely knew everything, he was Mycroft that way. But Moriarty had to think he was stupid enough to think he could hide it. 

"Got to the jury, of course," Sherlock commented finally. 

_Duh._

"-Tower -London -doors -open, -open -open. -I walk inside easily. -Hotel, -twelve -rooms, -you -think -I -not enter? -Doors closed, -I approach and hit doors, -they stay shut?" Moriarty scoffed and glanced at the television. 

_I didn't need the hint,_ Sherlock thought, even as he was grateful for it. Moriarty was going to underestimate him heartily – maybe that would allow him enough time to save it all. 

"Cable network," Sherlock filled in. 

"-T-V; -every -hotel -bedroom -have -one. -Every -person -have -pressure -point. -Something -they -want -protect. -Push, -they fall away easily," Moriarty replied. 

Sherlock sat down across from the genius, ready to spend a tedious afternoon across from a man telling him what he already knew. Still, it was a relief to have someone _speak_ to him, the language blooming into all it could be. 

He _hated_ pretending he was so ignorant about the world as to believe the P vs. NP problem had been solved and had lead to a method. He knew what the P vs. NP problem could do to cryptography, to all its applications; Moriarty wasn't exaggerating. Modern security systems would be rendered trivial for years if 3-SAT was solved. But his mother had almost killed herself on that problem. He knew what it would take to solve it, and it wasn't a tapped pattern of Bach's Partita number one on a pant leg. But _god,_ he was going to pretend it was even if it killed him. 

Moriarty left and Sherlock scoffed out a laugh. As if P vs. NP had been solved by a man who thought 'I owe you' carved into an apple would have an emotional effect on a sociopath. He was one step ahead. 

~~/~~ 

Sherlock knew why Moriarty had gone to trial; that at least was obvious by the fact that the tantrums had subsided, but the genius hadn't seen fit to share it. John was out of this case, apparently. That hurt, but he was hardly going to complain to Mycroft. He hadn't seen the man since that strange night in his house, but he was hardly surprised to be dragged back to his grand house. He was, however, surprised to see the sensationalist magazine on the posh club's end table. 

"You read this stuff?" he asked, picking up the article promising ' _ **Sherlock: The Shocking Truth"**_ with the strapline " _**Close Friend Richard Brook Tells All"**_

"I'd love to know where she got her information," John mentioned lightly. They'd stop talking about Sherlock or they wouldn't lift their arms for weeks. 

"Someone called Brook. Recognize the name?" Mycroft replied, his voice too light – like John was supposed to get some inside joke. John lowered the papers so he could see the man and shook his head. 

"School friend maybe?" he suggested. 

_Hardly a friend, to give a reporter such information._

Mycroft laughed snidely and John wanted to punch him. 

"Of Sherlock's?" Mycroft asked, chuckling. "But that's not why I asked you here." 

Four international assassins and Mycroft asking him to watch out for Sherlock. John scoffed out a laugh as he left. Like there was any question of that. He felt himself frown as he hailed a cab. Mycroft had to know there was no protection someone if anyone was determined to kill him – killing people was just too easy for that. There was nothing more inherently frightening about a darkened parking garage than a well-lit street – getting shot felt just the same. 

John climbed into the cab, concerned. If the assassins were just waiting for an order they were the same as any other sharpshooter with a target on his head and he'd kill them like any other enemy soldier. But if this was some other ploy in Moriarty's game he'd have to leave them breathing. He just had to trust that Sherlock would figure out which it was before either of them got shot. 

John got back to 221B to see the front door hanging wide open – Mrs. Hudson was likely airing the place out. Hopefully she'd vacuumed. John paid the cabbie and started for the door, only to hesitate before he reached it. There was an envelope propped up against the doorstep. It was a strangely dark brown, some all-natural material he'd expect from Greenpeace or some such, but otherwise it felt like a normal envelope. 

It was unaddressed. John felt his eyebrows furrow as he picked the thing up, hoping he wasn't about to stumble onto one of Mrs. Hudson's love letters. The envelope was too heavy for a letter and John's mind flashed automatically to the anthrax scares. Still, he figured, sliding his finger under the seal, the assassins had easier ways of killing him if that's what they chose. 

Brown dust fell out, onto his feet. John caught the debris in his fingers, feeling his eyebrows rise. The argument for an anthrax package was certainly looking more promising. It was a dry, clumpy dust that skittered over the ground by his feet as it fell. John tipped the envelope up, saving its contents. No doubt Sherlock would have an answer. Some plea for a new case, perhaps. Some clever code Sherlock would decipher in a moment and call a paltry attempt to gain his interest. Still, he'd give it to the man all the same. 

"'Scuse, mate," a man stated and John stepped out of the way automatically, turning to see a giant tattooed man stride past him, hauling a stepladder before him. John followed the man inside, shoving the mystery envelope into his pocket as he went. 

"-Weird -happen," he started as he came into the living room. He stopped signing immediately, hesitating in the doorway. Greg and Donovan were in their flat, both standing by Sherlock. "-what happen?" he asked before he thought to speak. Greg and Donovan both looked at him askance. 

_I've gotten too used to silence here._

"Kidnapping," Sherlock replied without looking at him, crossing to his laptop. 

"Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the U.S," Lestrade added, glancing between them like something was off. 

"He's in Washington, isn't he?" John protested, figuring that if Sherlock had decided to ignore him he might as well get his information from Lestrade. 

"Not him – his children, Max and Claudette, age seven and nine," Lestrade answered. 

_Oh. Hell._

Donovan flashed him the pictures of the children. 

"They're at St. Aldate's," Greg added. 

"Posh boarding place down in Surrey," Donovan explained. 

"Translate for me?" Lestrade asked, jerking his head at Sherlock. "I need to tell him that the school broke up; all the other boarders went home – just a few kids remained, including these two." 

"And that the kids have vanished," Donovan added. 

"And that the ambassador has asked for you two personally," Lestrade returned. 

John signed and tapped on Sherlock's arm. 

"If it's not about the case, leave me alone; I'm too busy for sex. You know that," Sherlock stated without looking up from his laptop. 

John closed his eyes. The flat had gone stupidly, stupidly silent. 

_Whatever. I'm not going back to the army._ John tapped Sherlock's shoulder again. 

"What, then?" Sherlock demanded, still without looking up from his ten tabs of recent news articles. 

John moved to his periphery and started signing. Sherlock nodded slightly when he finished and John turned to face the music. Lestrade and Donovan were both still watching them, eyebrows up. 

"We don't believe it, you know. You shouldn't worry. Psychopaths don't feel love. They don't feel anything," Donovant stated. "Don't bother being embarrassed, is all, we know he's lying," she added, shrugging. 

Lestrade glanced between Sherlock and him again, not looking as sure. 

"Why would I be embarrassed?" John asked and Donovan smirked slightly, like he'd just answered a different question. John felt his eyebrows furrow, but Sherlock was pulling up from his chair before he had a chance to ask. The man had strode past them and was out the door without a word only a second later and John resignedly moved to follow. 

"Not the healthiest relationship in the world, is it?" Lestrade asked and John blinked, trying to figure out what kind of relationship Lestrade thought it was. Either way, he was right. 

"The Reichenbach hero," Donovan added sarcastically. 

_We'd seemed healthy enough before Moriarty got involved. Or at least maybe getting there._

_Is he getting bored of me already, then?_ John wondered, holding out an arm to gesture for Donovan to lead them out. 

"Isn't it great to be working with a celebrity?" Lestrade snarked, moving toward the door. 

~~/~~ 


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This story used to go in a Very different direction, but I've since decided that that 'part 2" is much better served as part of a different timeline and this story is much better served concluding earlier. So, I've rewritten the ending to this, and I'll be posting a new reworked story quite soon. Follow my author's page to see when it's posted!  
**

The case felt far-fetched, even for Sherlock. John watched the man following the linseed oil tracks down the hall, deciding that if nothing else could be said about it, this case managed to make absolutely no sense at all. Only just enough sense for Sherlock to follow it, apparently.  


And deduce the intruder's shoe size, height, gait, and walking pace, apparently, he added as Sherlock bragged. John rubbed a hand over his face, unsure what to do. He watched Sherlock chuckle to himself as he crouched on the floor by a child's footprint and decided that if nothing else, he could protect the man from himself. 

"-Fun?" he asked. Sherlock nodded. 

"Starting to," he answered. 

"-Not -smile -maybe?" 

Sherlock lifted his head. 

"-Children -taken?" John reminded him. Sherlock lowered his head again to concentrate on scraping at the floor. John sighed and got back up. 

~~/~~ 

Molly had said something to him. 

Bore/core/door/for/fore/gore/more/pour/poor/roar/s ore/tore/tour/whore/your/you're? A – that at least was definite. Bit/fit/git/hit/mitt/pit/quit/sit/tit/wit/zit bike/dike/hike/like/Mike/mic/pike/Reich by/bye/die/dye/fie/guy/hi/high/lie/lye/my/pie/rye/ sigh/tie/vie/why bad/cad/dad/fad/mad/pad/rad/sad/tad bees/fees/he's/Lee's/sees/tease/wheeze/ bed/dead/head/led/lead/read/red/said/Ted/wed 

'You're a bit like my dad. He's dead', 'You're a tit like my dad. He's dead'. 'You're a wit like my dad. He's dead' or any of that ending in 'he's red', 'Lee's dead' or "Lee's red'. He still didn't know anyone named Lee, but any of the permutations were almost equally meaningless. And likely offensive – there was some rule about likening people to the dead even in honest cases. Made people feel threatened or ugly and Molly likely wasn't shooting for either. Still, she broke the normal social conventions on a regular basis, it couldn't be discounted that she'd be doing the same now. 

"No, sorry," she interrupted herself, closing her eyes. Her cheeks brightened and she only glanced at him for a moment – likely embarrassed, then. Had probably likened him to a dead man, then. 

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area," Sherlock replied honestly. Molly cringed – wanted to be better at it, perhaps. Wanted him to find some meaning in the statement that he was like her dead father, maybe. No way to determine for sure. 

Molly opened her mouth to talk again and Sherlock wanted to growl. Back to the lipreading, then, but it could be about the case. 

"When he?she?Lee? was dying, he was _ _ cheerful. _ except when _ could see. _ Lee?She?He? Looked bad/mad/sad," she said. Or something like it. This was infuriating. Sherlock glanced around for John. The man was looking through papers on the other side of the lab, apparently unaware of the conversation. Sherlock growled and went back to focusing on Molly's face. 

"Molly-" he growled. 

"You look bad/mad/sad," she glanced toward John – almost definitely to refer to him, none of her projects were in that area of the lab. "_ you think he/she/Lee can't see you," she added. Certainly referring to John, then. 

"Are you okay?" she asked -that one, at least, he was certain of. He'd seen it at the hospital and had had it confirmed. 

Molly added something but Sherlock didn't catch it. 

"I'm fine," he lied. Moriarty was winning; He could feel it. Control was slipping into Moriarty's hands and he had found nothing on the man. So much on his web, the names to bring him down but no proof and nothing on the man. Sherlock went back to his microscope. 

Molly tapped his arm and slipped something next to his hand. Sherlock glanced down. 

**_Don't just say you're okay. I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you. If you need anything, if there's anything I can do, just tell me. Please._ **

_What could I need from you?_ Sherlock looked up but Molly had already started for the door. He glanced at John who was still uselessly puttering around, thankfully oblivious to their conversation. 

The more distant he was with John, the less John knew, the less Moriarty would think he knew; the more Moriarty would underestimate him. Still, he'd have to be more subtle about it if Molly was noticing. He wanted to grab his partner, pull him close, but fortunately he had plenty of practice in not caring. He'd need it now. Moriarty had another move coming, that was clear. Sherlock just didn't know what it would be yet. 'Burn you' could have so many denotations. 

John was waving his hands in the air, holding the envelope they'd found at the kidnapping scene and Sherlock refocused. There was always the case. 

~~//~~ 

He should have seen it coming sooner, Sherlock thought, staring at his laptop screen. John was standing at the window watching Lestrade and Donovan climb back into the car they'd left out front. Moriarty had played his hand; his reputation was the target, then. Moriarty would burn his good name. 

The assassins were a twist he didn't yet understand. What was the final problem? Assassins killing each other, for a code he knew didn't exist? 

He messed the timing up. He had wanted to have the camera down before Lestrade showed up with his inevitable request to bring him to Scotland Yard; had wanted to take that moment from Moriarty. Oh well, it was irrelevant. The Inspector had left without him all the same. 

Sherlock felt strong hands grab onto his shoulders and press forward over his chest. John had moved around him, then. He let himself be turned in his chair and gazed up into John's worried face. John didn't look worried often. 

_We need more distance._ This needed to not hit John when it fell apart. 

"-What happen?" John demanded. 

"They'll be deciding," Sherlock stated. Meaningless, of course they'd be deciding. The question was what came after, what were the assassins for if not to kill him? 

"-Deciding?" John asked. 

"Whether or not to come back with a warrant and arrest me," Sherlock answered. That was still up in the air, but it was fairly likely Lestrade would return. He was a good Inspector, had learned the dangers of sentiment and usually managed to work around them. 

"You think?" John asked. For emphasis, only, -Sherlock was almost sure of it. 

"Standard procedure," Sherlock agreed. Three assassins now; why would they need three? Surely the two kills had been planned out, some kind of clue. So three assassins. Three kills that weren't him, what would that solve? That wouldn't worsen his reputation unless he'd been framed, but Moriarty had enough to ruin his reputation and send him permanently to prison as it was; especially given his propensity to jury rigging. More deaths would be redundant. 

"-Should -go -with -him. -People -will -think," John started, before placing his hands back over Sherlock's shoulders. His touch was warm and steady and Sherlock fought not to relax into it. 

"I don't care what people think," Sherlock answered. 

_False._

"-If -they -think -you -stupid -or -wrong, -you care," John protested, lifting his hands away to speak. 

_I've dealt with people thinking I'm wrong for thirty five years, you really think Moriarty will play that card? It's been beaten to death already,_ Sherlock thought, but he didn't say. He wasn't going to play Moriarty's game; the curiosity wasn't fun anymore; John wasn't safe. John would stay away from this. 

"-I -don't want -world -believe -you -" John broke off, looking concerned. 

"Believe I'm what?" 

"F-R-A-U-D," John answered. Sherlock shifted his weight and John crouched and ran his hands over Sherlock's knees, settling him back into the chair. 

"You're worried they're right," Sherlock stated. That hurt unnecessarily. He'd stay with John anyway. It wouldn't effectively change anything. 

"-No," John denied, shaking his head. 

"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well," Sherlock accused. 

_And defrauded by your partner._

"-No, -I -not," John answered, staring into his eyes sincerely. He'd lose John if the man thought him a fraud for too long, that was clear. 

Damn it John, _think._ For one _moment._ Why the impossible case, the screaming girl? Why couldn't John just _think?_

"Moriarty is playing with your mind too," Sherlock turned and slammed his hand down on the desk, to not punch his very dim partner. 

_Just_ think. _How can't you see it? I can't lose you._

"Can't you see what's going on?" Sherlock growled and the air came from his lungs too hard; his stomach clenched to propel it. He'd shouted, he thought. Unintentionally. 

_Is this the final problem? Getting John to turn against me?_

John grabbed his legs again, his hands steady and warm and Sherlock wanted to pull the man against him. He let himself be pulled up from the chair, those soothing hands rubbing up his sides. 

"-No, -I -not. -I -know -you -true," John declared. 

"-One hundred -percent?" Sherlock doubted it. John looked steadily back at him. 

"-No -one -fake -so much -annoying -dick -all day. -Can't," John replied. Sherlock felt himself smile before he could think better of it and forced the expression away. 

John reached a hand into his hair and pulled him down to kiss him softly. 

"-We -alright," John stated. 

_Hell._

~~//~~ 

It was stupidly easy to get John to believe in the code, running around the streets of London as a pair of ridiculous fugitives. He'd give Moriarty all the man wanted if it'd mean the genius underestimated him. 

Richard Brook, the actor to play his arch nemesis. Clever. Sherlock cursed to himself as he got out of the vile woman's flat. John caught him by the shoulder and Sherlock let himself be pulled around. 

"-Can -do -that -he?" John asked. "-change -self -make -you criminal?" 

_Yes, he can. Fuck you, Mycroft, for not telling me when you put information in the hands of my enemies. Too confidential, was it?_

"Yes, he can. He's got my whole life story. That's what you do when you sell a big lie; you wrap it up in the truth to make it more palatable." 

"-Your -word -against -his," John followed along. 

_Yes. What do you think he's been doing this whole time?_

"He's been sowing doubt into people's minds for the last twenty-four hours. There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his game and that's to -" 

_Have me admit to it. Complete the story. Three assassins. Of_ course _they weren't for me. They're persuasion._ That was obvious. Three assassins – too obvious who they were for. 

Two options, try to maintain his freedom in court – impossible, Moriarty had proven that, or let his reputation fail. Two options. He could go to jail and Moriarty would be free and _bored,_ and John would be defenseless. Or he could resort to the contingency plan he'd designed when his detective work first started; John was right, the press always turned, it'd been an inevitability. 

The fall from that building was going to _hurt._

John was waving at him, trying to get his attention. Sherlock turned. 

"There's something I need to do," Sherlock answered. He needed a breakaway cable, as damn small as possible; hopefully it would slow him down enough. He'd find out. He'd have to set it up ahead of time, loop the cable down the side of the building and back up, the right length – turn it into a one story fall, something he could live through. He needed a back harness then and he'd wear his coat, that'd keep it all from John's sight - 

"-What? -Can -I help you?" John asked. 

"No, on my own," Sherlock ordered, starting away. He needed an accomplice. He always thought it'd be Mycroft, but Moriarty was too smart for that. A hand on his shoulder stopped him mid-stride. 

"-Alright?" John asked, looking worried again. 

"Fine," Sherlock lied. Nowhere close to fine. This was going to be...horrible. It was a fail safe, he reminded himself. If he could convince Moriarty to call it off, he could keep everything. It was just a contingency plan. 

~~//~~ 

It seemed like the world was moving too fast. The case had gotten cocked up beyond reason. They'd almost been _arrested,_ their home was being held by the cops and John didn't even care; he had to get home before the ambulance left. She'd die in route, if the paramedic was right about the entrance wound. She was _dying_ and god, the cab couldn't move slower. And he wasn't going to think what the _fuck_ Sherlock was doing sitting alone in a hospital lab at such a time. His _work?_ John didn't believe it. But he'd have to find out later. For now - 

There was no ambulance outside 221B. John felt his heart sink. He knew what that meant; they were heading for the hospital he'd just left and Mrs. Hudson was probably already dead. 

Still, nothing could have stopped him from pushing inside to find what he could. He ripped the door open and it was like he was watching a dream. Adrenaline coursed through him, rushing his mind. Mrs. Hudson was standing just inside the door, helping that damn man with his stepladder, perfectly safe. 

_I've gone mad._

"Oh, god, John! You made me jump!" Mrs. Hudson complained. "Is everything okay now with the police? Has um, Sherlock sorted it all out?" 

No, worse. He hadn't gone mad. Sherlock had. That _fucker_ was planning something, something worth lying to him about a gunshot wound to a loved one. 

"Oh my god," John choked out. 

And hell, he'd believed the man would have just left her. God, Sherlock. What would he say to the man? What the _fuck_ was going on? 

John turned and ran. 

~~//~~ 

He couldn't talk to Sherlock on the phone. He didn't know what to say. He felt choked just looking at the man balancing on the edge of a building where it made _no_ sense for him to be, but it didn't matter – Sherlock couldn't hear. John kept repeating his name into the phone, knowing full-well the man heard nothing at all. So Sherlock just talked, and John had never hated Baskerville so much for taking Sherlock Holmes' hearing away. He couldn't ask what was going on. 

"I... I ...I can't come down, so we'll...we'll have to do it like this. This is...an apology. It's all true. Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." 

Sherlock sounded like he was crying. _Sherlock Holmes,_ his _partner,_ who'd apparently decided to be a jerk for the month of June and now was standing at the top of a building – what the _fuck_ was going on? 

"I'm a fake." Sherlock's voice broke. John wanted to pull the man to him, shoot anyone who even looked at them. 

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty for my own purposes." 

_Oh god...no._ Moriarty had won. John had no idea how but he must be seeing the result. Moriarty had won that _damn_ game the two of them had played. And he was watching the result of it. 

_Sherlock, you idiot._ But he couldn't _talk._

"I'm a fake," Sherlock declared. John wanted to crush his phone, but he couldn't stop his connection to this man. 

John shoved his phone into his crooked-up shoulder to free his hands. It was worth a shot; he couldn't just say nothing. 

"-Shut up. -Shut up. -First -time -we -met, -first -time, -you know -about -my -sister, -right," he gestured as widely as he could. 

"I can't see you. I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his voice breaking again. 

_Just come down. We'll be okay._

"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick, a magic trick." 

_Fucking stop it,_ John wanted to order, walking forward. 

"-No! Stay exactly where you are. Don't move," Sherlock ordered. John stepped back into place, uncertain. "Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" 

God, Sherlock sounded frantic. What could make such a man sound like that? Fuck, but he couldn't _ask,_ couldn’t talk to the man from here. 

_Stop this, Sherlock._

“-Coming up” John signed as largely as he could and ran toward the building. He heard Sherlock shout something through his phone but couldn’t make it out. He kept the useless device clasped in his hand, praying Sherlock wouldn’t do anything drastic before he’d managed to make his way to the roof. A bicycle clipped past him, cutting him off, and John cursed, dodging out of its way as he made his way straight into the street. 

He knew this hospital, had done his rounds here once. Had spent his breaks lounging on that roof. He knew which hallways to run down, which ‘staff only: alarm will sound’ doors had no alarm attached, and he raced his way to the roof access stairs without being stopped. Then there was just the five stories of stairs to sprint up, on a bad leg Sherlock Holmes had healed. 

John cracked open the metal door and stepped cautiously onto the roof. The wind played at his hair, whistling in his ears. Sherlock stood out on the ledge at the back of the roof, his face white with fear. John frowned. He’d been expecting a firefight, but Sherlock was apparently alone. 

_Alone now,_ John corrected himself, noticing the pool of blood seeping out form behind one of the roof AC units. 

“-M-O-R-I-A-R-T-Y?” John asked, pointing to the blood puddle with his right hand. Sherlock swallowed and nodded, glancing around the roof as if expecting a new fight to come from anywhere. It wasn’t often that Sherlock Holmes looked scared. John placed his hand ready on his holster. They were out in the open up here. This wasn’t the tallest building around. Fish in a barrel, and Sherlock was still standing on the damn ledge. 

He’d been crying. John felt his eyes widen, looking at the tear tracks running down Sherlock’s cheeks, glinting in the sun. 

“-Off -roof -now,” John ordered and Sherlock smiled, a grim amusement in his eyes. 

“Goodbye, John” Sherlock said. He turned around. 

“No! Don’t!” John shouted, stepping forward, but of course Sherlock couldn’t hear. Sherlock dropped forward, too far away to catch, too far away to even watch fall as he disappeared over the edge. 

_No, no no no_

“Sherlock!” John screamed, running forward, just as he heard a terrible _thump_ that could only be one thing. 

_No no no_

John ran to the edge of the roof and stared down, his mind reeling. 

There was Sherlock’s body, Sherlock’s coat, laying in a broken lump five stories below. He had to check, it couldn’t be - he’d been talking to the man just two seconds - 

There was a cable swinging out of a window. John watched as it was slowly pulled back inside. Nurses were swarming around the body below. Such a fast response. Even for a hospital, that wasn’t right - 

The cable disappeared into the window one floor below. A breakaway cable. What could that mean? Sherlock jumped, caught a cable, attached it to himself, let it break his fall, and landed on the ground as a very alive pile of broken bones? Surely that was insanity - 

John inhaled slowly, belief swamping him. It made so much more sense than Sherlock Holmes committing suicide. 

John exhaled, watching the medical response team start to push Sherlock’s body through the crowd, toward the side exit door. They must have propped it open. That went straight into the morgue. 

Molly. 

Only more convinced, John sprinted for the roof access door. What was Sherlock _doing?_ John had let himself stay out of the loop for far, far too long. If Sherlock wasn’t dead in Molly’s morgue, John was going to kill him. 


	3. Chapter 3

John stopped short at the door to the morgue, staring at the sight within. Sherlock was sitting up on the gurney, his hair matted with blood, a hand supporting a visibly broken arm. 

_He just jumped from a building._

John focused on his breathing, keeping himself from hyperventilating. He watched as Molly set Sherlock’s arm. They weren’t going to the E.R. No, Sherlock was hiding this. 

He’d faked his death. Planned it ahead of time. A breakaway cable, a harness, an emergency response team of god-knew-who, Molly. And he hadn’t told John. He wasn’t ever going to. 

John felt like the world was giving out beneath his feet. He watched the man settle his arm into an aircast. His partner. John wanted to spit at the word. Partner? Sherlock had been going to let him _grieve._ What would have happened if John had stayed at the bottom of that building? 

_Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?_

_God, Sherlock._

John felt his heart race. He could barely think about it. He would have heard Sherlock break against the sidewalk, would have rushed to the body, would never have looked up to see the dangling wire. 

He was inclined to let Sherlock leave. He could do that. Sherlock had quite decisively decided to end everything between them. Whatever it was that they’d had. 

He'd lost John. Sherlock let his body scream in pain and focused on it. Molly was pushing his shoulder back into its socket. He felt it snap back into alignment and his pain lessened greatly. Molly worked on him quickly, knowing the stakes. 

He stared at the opposite wall and ignored how it was blurred. He couldn't stop crying, that was evident, so it was irrelevant. 

There was no way to go after Moriarty's men without risking John, and no way to return while the assassins still existed. It wasn't worth it if there was any chance at all he'd come back only to find John with a bullet in his brain, the back of his head sprayed out over the couch. Moriarty’s network would take years to bring down. Years before he could return. 

The morgue door swung open. Sherlock looked around, letting his pulled muscles tug painfully to see who had so badly walked in on them. 

John. 

Sherlock swallowed. John was white-faced, shocked, sucking in breath. 

He’d not been fooled. That was alright. Sherlock had a contingency plan. John would have to act - and they’d both pray Moriarty’s men were stupid enough to believe him. Sherlock felt joy lick through him. He’d been trying to be so selfless, taking the safer route, letting John’s mourning complete the picture of a true suicide, leave his home in London and his time as John Watson’s partner behind, to keep John safe. Now, at least, John did not have to mourn until he returned. 

John said something to Molly, his head turned away from Sherlock. Purposefully? Impossible to determine. Molly sidled out, gripping her clipboard to her chest, her eyes wide. She usually looked uncomfortable; no new data. Sherlock turned to face John more fully, needing to explain their necessary course of actions. John was staring at him, his mouth pinched, his hands limp at his sides. Resigned and pained. By what? Perhaps the race up the stairs - his leg was not perfect, still, or his shoulder - 

“-We -finished,” John said and it was Sherlock’s turn to stare. 

“-Let -me -think -you -died? -This -case -never -include -me? -This -danger -M-O-R-I-A-R-T-Y -let -your -problem. -Mine? -Never. -Concept -us? -in -your -brain -never. -Problem? -You -solve -yourself. -Danger -you -attack. -Me? -Wait. -Me -safe. -That -life -never -me -choose,” John signed, panting. Sherlock swallowed, glad Molly was gone from the room. 

_He’s gotten so much better,_ he thought inanely. John could shout at him again. 

He didn’t have a contingency plan for this. Why did it matter? They were over any way; he was leaving. He’d not return for years. He’d lost John. How was it worse that John agreed they were over? 

“Three assassins. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. I found a solution and that’s why you leave me?” Sherlock hissed. He didn’t understand. Why was he arguing for this? He had to go after Moriarty. John snarled at him but Sherlock couldn’t catch what he’d said. 

Sherlock couldn’t stand to live in a world where John Watson thought so ill of him. 

“-This -solution? -I -think -you -dead? -You -come -back -when? -You -plan - I -mourn -how -long?” John asked. Sherlock stared at him, uncertain what to say. How could he fix this? 

John’s eyes hardened, understanding what he hadn’t said. Never. Probably never. 

“-And -this -how -you -leave -me?” John demanded, gesturing around the morgue and at Sherlock’s broken body. 

“-You -safe,” Sherlock pointed out. John’s jaw clenched. Sherlock felt his eyes widen, recognizing his mistake as John became only more furious. John Watson had never wanted to be safe. 

_Could be dangerous._

“-That -not -my -choice. -Choice -you -not -give -me,” John replied shaking his head. Sherlock stared at his partner, his mouth dry. How had he forgotten that? 

_I got caught up in the puzzle,_ Sherlock glanced over the tired wrinkles in John’s face, his panting breath, the way his mouth was pulled down, barely kept from weeping. He wished he could delete the image immediately. He’d forgotten John in the rush of it all. Remembered he’d had something precious to protect but forgotten _John._ The rock sturdy sharpshooter with a paradoxical desire for danger and utter banality. John swallowed and turned around to pull open the morgue door. He left, likely without another word. Sherlock didn’t know; he couldn’t hear. The door swung but Sherlock couldn’t hear it shut. This felt so much more final than jumping from a hospital roof. 

John stumbled out of the morgue, unsure where he was going. He stepped outside and the sun blinded him. Such a beautiful day. He stepped out of the way of a crying woman, heading toward the morgue doors with a handkerchief pressed to her lips. Come to identify a body. 

He closed his eyes as the bile rose up in his throat. There was still blood on the concrete, seeping into the sidewalk. The police hadn’t gotten here yet. There’d be sirens and police tape and autopsy reports, he was sure. All the paperwork of a successful suicide. John sank down beside the dark smear of blood, unsure of what to do or where to go. The crowd slowly built up around him and slowly dissipated again when there was nothing more to see. 

He had a feeling he was waiting for Sherlock to come striding out of those hospital doors, full of wounded pride and fearful apologies. The doors swung open and closed again around a leather coated man, reading a book as he walked. John blew out a heavy breath. When did he get so dependent? 

He was single again. 

A black van pulled up at the kerb beside him. Mycroft. John closed his eyes. Of course Mycroft knew Sherlock Holmes was alive. Damn them both. 

_God, Sherlock._ He wasn’t going to get over this. John pulled himself to his feet, his stiff knee buckling beneath him and locking painfully. He stumbled his way to the car and sank down into the back seat inside. The backseat was empty. He was left alone and dropped off before the front of 221B. 

John got out of the car and stared at their front door. His now, surely. Sherlock would not be coming back to London. John wouldn’t have to avoid their haunts, avoid their unintended meeting. Sherlock was gone. The limo was idling, waiting for him. No doubt the driver was watching him, ready to report to Mycroft. John fumbled with the front door. He needed to get inside. 

“Back again, John? What is all this rushing about? What’s Sherlock done now?” Mrs. Hudson complained, sticking her head out of her flat. 

John closed his eyes, gathering himself. Right. A fake suicide. Was he to lie about the death, for all their sakes, then? John started for the stairs. 

Fuck it. 

“John?” 

“Call-“ he swallowed and pressed up the stairs. “Call Mycroft.” 

He got to their flat, hoping to hell she wouldn’t say anything else. 

“It is Sherlock? Is he alright then?” she called. John made himself open their door. 

_He’s gone._

“John!” Mrs. Hudson screeched and John slammed the door closed. The flat wasn't quiet enough. He could still hear Mrs. Hudson scrambling around downstairs, the bus outside loudly announcing its route, two people laughing together below their window. It was just their flat and John found himself wanting Sherlock to get home so the man could scoff at the tragedy, tell him mourning was futile, an excess of emotion that by definition could do nothing to affect its cause, and hold him close and breathe into his hair. 

John fell into his chair stiffly. 

_What the fuck just happened?_

John’s eyes flickered around the room, almost unseeing. All of this life, over so quickly. Signs of Moriarty were scattered over Sherlock's desk; the coffee mug, the still-open laptop, the random papers and post-its and ballpoint pens 

_Felt tips are_ hateful, _John._

Papers and folders were piled on every available surface and strewn over most of the floor. John lifted a pile of court documents from the table beside him and dropped them again, trying not to wonder how Sherlock had obtained them. The insane genius had never told him. 

There were piles of papers propping up the couch. John blinked and pushed himself out of his armchair, trying not to think of the idiocy of the madman lifting up their furniture to stuff the paper beneath. It wouldn't be unlike Sherlock to keep important files in the least accessible part of the house. 

_Especially given how much he was hiding from me, by the end._

John winced at the thought and shoved the couch out of the way. 

_Crap._ ASL word sheets. Stacks and stacks of them. John crouched by the closest pile and leaned against the wall as he picked it up. 

A list of different animal names. Useless, probably, but John had a feeling Sherlock sorted which words were most valuable by the degree of accessibility in the apartment. 

He had no need to be learning these, now, John told himself, glancing over the different piles. Animal words, holidays, different types of fruit, astronomy terms. John snorted, the sound too loud in the room, holding up the last list. Moon, sun, stars, orbit. An inside joke, planted for him to find when he got this far in his ASL learning. He could just see Sherlock’s eyes shining with smug amusement. 

_Damn it._

He carried the piles out to the front of the room, wanting to compare it to the piles Sherlock had left out for him on the coffee table. 

Crimes, human anatomy, insults. John scoffed, shaking his head, and went to explore the piles left on beside the ugly lamp. 

An entire stack too big to grip in one hand of business terms. 

John moved from pile to pile, collecting them all on the coffee table, keeping them in the order Sherlock had subtly placed them in. A tiny insight into the man’s mind. 

_I left him._

John stared at the overflowing paper stacks unsure why he’d gathered them. He wasn’t learning sign language anymore. 

_Come home, Sherlock._ John collapsed on the couch, another stack of ASL sheets in his hand. He ducked his head, feeling tears starting to build behind his eyes. 

_-Say -quote -I -want -to -be -alone._

_Would you please let me stalk out!_

_Do not trifle with me. I have made my move, by rights it should now be yours._

John ignored the tears running down his cheeks, letting them drop off his chin. They blotted the top ASL sheet. To appreciate. Right. Why had Sherlock thought he’d needed that? He thumbed through the pile. To skate, to rollerblade, to snowboard. Some in ASL, some in BSL. 

_Why would I want to talk to anyone else?_

He wept. 

_Four assassins living right on our doorstep. They didn’t come here to kill me; they have to keep me alive._

Sherlock knew. He’d figured it out, long before Moriarty ever sprung his trap. 

_Three assassins. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. I found a solution and that’s why you leave me?_

The damn case was everywhere around him. Cursing, John pushed himself up. He only needed a minute and a box and it’d all be gone. Mycroft would want it, no doubt. 

_-We -finished._ John shook his head, wishing he’d worded it differently. They’d never even started. He strode around the room, dumping the pictures, newspaper clippings, and classified government files into a banker’s box. Mycroft could have it all. He just wanted it out of his house. 

He paused, at the folder of assassin profiles. If only he’d known. Why hadn’t Sherlock told him about the threat sooner? Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. And Sherlock wasn’t dead. What would happen then, if Ludmilla Dyachenko learned of their deception? Moriarty would have a contingency plan. 

_My turn._ John felt his resolve harden. He’d let Sherlock run this case for far too long. Three unknown assassins, perhaps more. A solvable problem. John started picking through the apartment more carefully, scouring the living room for whatever bits of information Sherlock had left behind. He’d protect Sherlock. Then he could move on with his life. 

An assassin couldn’t always watch a moving target. Sharpshooters were sit and wait predators. They’d take their time, spend a week staring down a place their target was sure to go. Limited options. 

There was a building across the block that looked into 221B. Only the second apartment from the end on the third floor could see through the trees into their stairway. He couldn’t let his would-be murderer know he was coming for him. John left the house and spent two hours running through the tube system, until he was certain he’d lost any possible trail, before he snuck back down George Street, to approach his neighbor’s building from behind. He picked open the back door, and began his reconnaissance in in a closet overlooking the building’s only staircase. If an assassin were spending all day watching 221B, he’d much prefer to spend his whole day watching the assassin. 

A criminal network set up by a mad genius. Oh, but he should love this. Sherlock watched the mailman slip a letter into Clarence Faren’s mailslot. No stamp, no return address. But Sherlock’s heart was not pounding. His adrenaline did not rush through his veins at the confirmation of another clue, another string to pull to unravel this knot. He was on the hunt, but he did not care at all. It wasn’t right. 

John Watson had ruined him. He’d had the hunt, once. Had his brain and a puzzle and that was all he needed. Now he had _nothing._ A perfect puzzle and the rush was gone. 

Sherlock watched the mailman disappear back into his cab and pull back into the street. He could try cocaine again. John would never see him again, so why should he care what John would see? Illogical. And yet he couldn’t buy it, couldn’t set up a needle for his veins. Couldn’t walk around the world as a man John Watson would think less of, even if John never thought of him again. 

Sherlock disappeared back into the alleyway, his bland observation done, his misery as intact as it was before this extra clue. 

He stared at the tea in his hands, trying to remember what he’d been doing. Reading Sherlock’s files, trying to find any data on the assassins. Why hadn’t Sherlock investigated their backgrounds? The answer was obvious. Sherlock enjoyed the rush, enjoyed the danger, and the assassins themselves were never part of the great puzzle. John threw his perused file back onto his desk. The once hectic, cluttered home was slowly emptying itself out. Mrs. Hudson had come to take away Sherlock’s experiments. John had let her. 

_Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, can you do this for me?_

_Fuck, Sherlock._

_What, no good?_

John closed his eyes. 

_I never told you I loved you._

John shoved his tea down the desk, clearing the space for more paperwork. 

_I’ll get past this._

A knock sounded downstairs, followed by the clicking gait of Mycroft with his umbrella. John pushed himself up, gripping the edge of the desk as he wrangled his tangled emotions back under control. He was not going to kill this man. 

Mycroft rapped quietly at the flat door. He’d never bothered when Sherlock was around. John sighed. 

“Come in, Mycroft,” he called, crossing into the kitchen to put the kettle on again. Mycroft stopped in the doorway, his expression tight and mournful. 

“Evening, John,” he greeted quietly, his hand flexing around his umbrella handle. John ran a hand down his face. 

_You gave Moriarty all he needed._ Somehow John couldn’t muster up the anger he’d expected. He sat down at the kitchen table. Mycroft stayed standing, looking only more uncomfortable. 

“The ..ah… the funeral,” he started, gazing around the empty kitchen, his eyes catching on the sanitized shelves where microscopes and vortex mixers used to be. John focused his gaze on his tea. It was lukewarm now. 

“Shall I handle it, then?” 

John glanced up. What - ah. The funeral. What a farce. John sneered. Mycroft blinked, looking threatened for a moment and John wondered what the man had seen in his expression. 

“I will arrange it,” Mycroft said, as if they were agreeing. “You should be aware, I’m screening your mail. This will be in the papers soon. I have no doubt.” He turned to leave. John nodded, grateful. They didn’t have much connection to each other, now. An ex-boyfriend’s brother. John’s breath caught unnaturally and Mycroft paused, one foot in the doorway, hesitating. “For my part in this,” he started, turning around again. 

_Goodbye Mycroft,_ John thought, pushing back from the table. His chair scraped badly against the floor. 

“My dearest apologies, John,” Mycroft said softly. John stood, preparing to show the man out the door. Mycroft stood his ground. John crossed his arms, annoyed. Mycroft swallowed. “Sherlock’s death-“ 

“What?” John barked, stepping forward before he’d even thought. Mycroft frowned at him, nonplussed. His eyes widened with realization and he gripped his umbrella tighter. A fake tell, if John had ever seen one. He couldn’t fathom what Mycroft was _actually_ thinking. Doubtless, Moriarty’s eyes were on them. 

“Well,” Mycroft stated and paused, as if waiting for John to fill in the silence. John stared back at him. 

_Get out of my house._

_“_ Be that as it may… Sherlock’s will must be enacted. Needless to say, you’ll get everything. There will be paperwork,” Mycroft said, regathering himself. 

_And I reap the benefits of my ex-boyfriend’s estate?_ John thought, disgusted. 

“Put it in a separate account. I won’t touch it,” John promised. Mycroft frowned. 

“My dear Watson. Sherlock would certainly want -“ he started. 

“Sherlock and I are -” John interrupted, only to cut himself off. He needed to use the past tense now. He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the tension building up in his chest. “Were not together.” 

Mycroft’s eyes darted over his body, desperately picking up what they’d missed. John withstood the inspection, trying not to remember that it’d be his last. He didn’t bother telling Mycroft that he’d been the one to end it; surely that truth was written all over his body. 

Mycroft nodded slowly, only looking more uncomfortable standing int he doorway. John turned to turn the kettle off, unsure what more there was to say. He’d lost everything. Sherlock had lost everything. Moriarty had won. It didn’t matter if Sherlock dismantled the whole criminal network. The reason John cared about it was gone. Mycroft left. John poured his cold tea down the sink. 

He needed John back. Sherlock lay on the molding hostel bed, staring at the water damaged ceiling. The patch of discolored drywall stretched across the room in almost concentric circles. A slow drip and a lot of time. A busted pipe, probably. 

He’d started to know what it was to be happy, with John’s help. Healthy and cared for. What would it take to have that again? 

Moriarty destroyed them with such ease. 

John Watson, the most resilient man Sherlock had ever met. And he’d lost him by caring more about keeping the man alive than keeping him happy. Sherlock could barely wrap his mind around that. He’d been selfless for the first time. Was that love, then? Now he didn’t think it’d been worth it. John would have wanted to join him. 

He could have done that. The risk hadn’t been that great; he could have faked a murder-suicide. Moriarty had thought of John as a pet, an amusement, a keepsake he'd grown too attached to – and Sherlock had been able to convince the man he was capable of far worse than possessive violence. He would have believed Sherlock capable of murdering John, simply so no one else could have him. 

He could have brought John with him onto that rooftop. And he knew John would have followed him, would have given up anything to be with him. 

But he'd thought John was better off without him. Better off married, independent, not chasing after him desperate for another peal of danger. 

_Wrong._

_-And -this -how -you -leave -me?_

_-That -not -my -choice. -Choice -you -not give -me._

John had always been more important than Moriarty. Sherlock pulled himself up from the uncomfortable cot, furious with himself. John would have joined him. 

He needed John back. An almost impossible task. He needed to change the mind of the most resilient man he’d ever met, from a hostel room in Prague, with the world still thinking him dead, while taking down a criminal network created by a genius. Sherlock reached forward and pulled a stack of patches from the pile on the bedside table. A four patch problem. 


	4. Chapter 4

He was getting his hearing back. Low sounds, a popped tire, the crunch of a crashed car. It didn’t seem fair. Noise was distracting. Squealing tires, roaring sirens. John was gone. He couldn’t hear John’s dark chuckle, the rumble of his voice in his chest, so hearing was nothing. Still, he wanted it back. Why did he want it? Why did it matter? 

Sherlock snarled at the policeman helping the two crashed convicts from their vehicle. He slipped across the road, as if walking toward the waiting ambulance, and disappeared into the bushes. Moriarty’s accountants were now taken care of for the next eight years. 

~~//~~ 

Not this place, John decided finally, standing up from his crouch in the closet. Dust was coating his clothing, though less so than his first day. He’d been bringing it home every day, to settle over the couch. 

Dust is eloquent. 

In a glance Sherlock would know how many days John had spent hiding in this closet. John patted himself down fruitlessly, sending up a cloud of dust to tickle his nose. No doubt Sherlock would know how long he’d been spending on the couch, as well. Their bed was cold and John could not use Sherlock’s. 

There’s a dead owl on it. 

Of course. 

John couldn’t look at the doorway without remembering Sherlock meticulously moving the owl body, keeping its feathers so carefully aligned, stripping his sheets and making up the bed without complaint. So they could lie there together. 

He should move. He knew he should. John listened through the door for anyone's breathing, any sign of an assassin lying in wait for him just as he did for him. John pulled his way out of the closet slowly, keeping his eyes flashing around the well lit room, and carefully started on his convoluted path home. There were six different effective sniper shots for their front door. That’d cover either Mrs. Hudson or him, perhaps both, with the right timing. He’d watch those, next. He’d have to restart this whole process if he moved buildings. At least he’d was much more comfortable on his staircase now. Though given, that was the only place he’d confirmed no one was targeting him. It wasn't the assassin that kept him in 221B. But if not that, John didn't know what it was. Sherlock and he were over, and 221B had always felt like Sherlock's domain. He should be the one to give it up, and if Sherlock ever came home, it'd be awkward if John were still there. And yet, he'd found apartment options and moving companies and had never called any of them. 

John got home to the empty flat and made himself strip off his coat. He wanted to turn around and go to a bar, he wanted to drown himself in the addiction. But he'd come too close to that path before and he wasn't treading near it again. 

Sherlock's not dead, he reminded himself, going to put on the kettle for tea. 

Sherlock stared at the hotel's empty electric kettle, wanting tea. He couldn't make it exactly as John did, because the man had a fascinating way of making it differently almost every time. The steeping time varied, the sugar quantity varied, the milk varied. Sherlock didn't know how to do that without rolling a random number generator, and still, it wouldn't be like John's. Sherlock snarled at himself. He missed the man. That was all this was. He didn't want tea, he wanted John, and his brain was lying to him. Sherlock threw on his coat and started for the door. He'd go to a bleeding Costa Coffee. 

~~//~~ 

John stared at the woman across from him, trying to decide how to answer what he’d been up to lately. 

I’ve been spending sixteen hours a day hiding in cramped spaces, trying to stalk the killer stalking me. 

That wasn’t on. John hid a smile behind his cup of tea. She’d think him paranoid. 

When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. 

“What are you smiling about?” she asked, leaning back in her chair, her cappuccino held in one hand. This woman wouldn’t bring assassins to his front door. That would be all over soon. John’s smile faded. 

“You’re beautiful,”he said and the woman beamed. 

It’s when two people go out and have fun. Well, then, he still hadn’t been on a date since he’d dated Sherlock Holmes. John sighed and leaned forward, trying to be interested. He’d left Sherlock Holmes. That was over. He needed to find something new. 

“So an army doctor. Wow. Did you ever have to…you know..” She said, leaning forward, her eyes gleaming. John swallowed, biting back a harsh rejoinder. Why was that attractive? He’d studied for so long learning how to save a man, only to find his true skill lay in killing them. 

You’re a doctor. In fact you’re an army doctor. Any good? 

He was very good. Bullets scared him but he could run toward them. And take out two men while he kept consistent pressure on a wound. Sherlock wanted his experience with corpses, to catch their killers. This woman wanted his experience as a killer…why? 

“Oh,” she said, her eyes dimming. Apparently his silence answered her question and it wasn’t as much fun when he wasn’t thrilled by the notion. 

What’s your name again? John wondered, staring at her. 

“Would you like dessert?” he asked instead. 

~~//~~ 

One down, John thought, dropping the corpse onto the alleyway floor. The mad had been camping out across his clinic with a M82A1. Effective, but hardly subtle. Moriarty apparently didn’t look for flare in his hired killers. That’d make it easier. Two more. 

There was a package in front of his apartment building when he got home. John slowed his steps approaching it, his mind racing. He was inclined to call the bomb squad, but he couldn’t bring that much attention to himself. He was supposed to be the clueless, bumbling doctor, Sherlock’s pet, not his partner. To appear aware of his danger would set his assassin to greater caution. It wouldn’t be Moriarty’s style to have him blown up without any kind of last word. And as far as John could remember, he had no other enemies. Not with Sherlock gone. 

No, the greatest likelihood was it was exactly what it looked like. A simple bouquet of flowers shipped to his front door to make him feel vulnerable. 

John pulled the box into his arms, unsurprised to see it had no shipping addresses nor note. A threat then. Made especially peculiar by the high number of lilies advertised on the box. His favorite flower. 

John brought the bouquet inside and gave it water, unfazed. Moriarty could try to rankle him all he wanted; John was tired of it. He’d appreciate the flowers and be done with it. 

"Yoo hoo," Mrs. Hudson called, walking into the kitchen to find him with the bouquet. John turned, feeling like she'd caught him with something inappropriate. Mrs. Hudson's face lit up. "Oooh, but who sent you those? Red roses are a symbol of love hopeful, you know," she cooed, lifting the flowers out of the vase in John's hands. John stared at her, baffled, as she went over to the sink and started snipping off the ends of their stems. "Getting out there again, then?" she asked, her happy tone failing for a moment. 

John swallowed, unsure how to respond. 'No' was most accurate, probably. He doubted even the women who'd joined him would call their nights out successful 'dates'. 

"What's his name, then?" she asked, turning around. She was smiling but her eyes were dim, her sadness palpable. 

John shook his head, feeling foolish. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson was right, perhaps the flowers were not a threat at all. Perhaps they were a gift from a woman. He hoped not. He did not remember any of their names. 

Mrs. Hudson's frown deepened, apparently reading the thought in his eyes. 

"Well then," she said cheerfully, and shoved the flowers back into the vase in his hands, though she'd only finished half their stems. She left without another word, still smiling, and John pushed the flowers into the middle of the kitchen table, unsure what to think. 

~~//~~ 

Flowers. Sherlock snarled at himself pacing around his german hotel room. Three false shipping addresses and a favor from Molly - who no doubt thought him pitiable - and John Watson had approached it like an I.E.D. 

Of course he had. Brilliant soldier. 

And yet he’d apparently missed the blue and red petal coded message entirely. Idiot man. Sherlock growled. It’d taken two weeks to set that up to bypass Mycroft’s careful screening. He’d have to try again. He’d google more forgiveness ideas first. 

He returned to the boxes of accountant notes he’d stolen. Six days to read it all, he estimated. Another week of useless time that John would have been mourning him. He’d known it’d take this long, he told himself. This was fine, all according to plan. Still he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was very much glad John Watson knew he was alive. If he could earn the man’s trust back. 

Trust? That I’d risk your life to have you like me? Is that better? 

Sherlock threw himself onto the warehouse floor to sit crosslegged before the accountant boxes. He was never going to understand his partner. 

Partner. The word resonated. Sherlock threw it out of his mind. Irrelevant. He had to take down Moriarty’s network and keep the man alive. Forgiveness couldn’t come from a corpse. 

~~//~~ 

Sebastian Moran. Finally. John waited behind the oversized dumpster. Moran had parked out of sight from the C.C.T.V cameras - a reasonable safeguard for a contract killer that occasionally came home with bloodstains. Upright citizens were always more tricky to kill inconspicuously. Moran was a husky, muscled man with a thick mustache and a permanent scowl. John shot him when he rounded the corner, heading toward his car. Moran jerked and moved to grab his gun, despite the killing blow. Bullet-proof vest. John shot twice more, head-shots that sent blood and brain-matter exploding across the pavement. Careful to avoid the mess, John rustled through the sprayed clothing, beneath the thick black vest, to the man’s pants pockets. He grabbed the man’s wallet, stripped off his gloves, and jogged toward the street. He’d enter the hotel from the front, he decided; he’d managed to avoid the bloodstains. 

Moran’s door opened passively to the keycard, giving off a welcoming green light. John hesitated, hearing footsteps within the room. A lover? If so, he’d drastically under-researched his target. Moran was supposed to be staying alone. 

John picked the lock and slipped inside, keeping his gun in front of him. The room was dark but the windows were clearly well sealed, designed not to open. The bed was made, the bathroom door closed but no light shone from below the door. So not a lover, then. Someone attempting to hide. There weren’t that many options, in a hotel room. But it was dangerous to enter an unobserved room. John closed the hallway door behind himself and flicked on the light, as if he were Sebastian Moran, returning for a pair of forgotten keys. He crossed to the desk keeping his gun on the bathroom door and his eyes on the edges of the made bed, opened a drawer, and made his way back to the front of the room. He opened the front door and shut it carefully, careful to jiggle the handle like a hotel guest making sure the room was locked. Then he waited. 

“You’re quite patient, but I know your trick and I don’t fancy getting shot just now,” Sherlock’s voice called out. John stilled, shocked. He was rather inclined to rush out the way he’d come. “I can out wait you,” Sherlock bragged. 

-You -plan -I -mourn -how long? 

I could shoot through the door, John thought idly. 

“If you were planning on shooting me, you’d have done so already,” Sherlock goaded him. John slid down the door to sit on the ragged carpet. It was good just to hear Sherlock’s deep voice again. Just the sound of it made him happier, made him feel like a whole world of adventure was opening up for him. He holstered his gun, deciding to wait Sherlock out. And face him seated? John tapped his head back against the door behind him, frustrated with himself. 

Sherlock Holmes. His ex-boyfriend. John snorted out a sad laugh. 

What would it take for Sherlock to take him as a partner? John knew he wasn’t going to get any smarter. Nothing that would equal Sherlock Holmes. The brain puzzles would always be Sherlock’s realm. 

But the physical ones were mine, John thought, angry again. 

“I’m coming out,” Sherlock announced, proving his point. Not the best way. The door was hinged on the inside. He should have released the pins, let the door open on the wrong side and fall through, buy himself some surprise when he didn’t know what his enemy looked like. John pushed himself to his feet. 

Sherlock cracked the door open, hinges intact, and slid out form behind it, already looking towards the hallway door. Apparently he had at least known where John was in the room. Sherlock froze, hallway out of the bathroom, and stared at John in obvious shock. 

“-Hello,” John signed ironically. It looked remarkably like a salute. Sherlock swallowed and glanced around the hotel room, either looking for more attackers or a way to escape. John let him, knowing there was neither. 

Why am I trapping him here? John wondered, uncomfortable. Sherlock’s gaze flickered over him, no doubt reading his discomfort. 

“You came here to kill Moran,” he stated. John shook his head. No, he already had. Sherlock’s mouth opened, apparently catching that detail, but he didn’t speak. 

“-This -problem? -Friends -not -safe? -Fix -my -way,” John answered, clenching his jaw. Sherlock frowned and glanced around the room again. 

“You’re here for more information. So you can kill the next one. Idiot! There’s always something,” Sherlock hissed, his crooked teeth flashing. John waited, guessing that for once he wasn’t the subject of Sherlock’s scorn. 

“-This -problem -my -skill -fit. -Past -this -should -let -me -manage,” John replied finally, annoyed. Sherlock glanced over John’s clothing again, as if looking for bloodstains. He wouldn’t find any, John knew. 

“I should read your military file,” Sherlock muttered. John wanted to hit him. 

“-Like -you -don’t know” he snarked. Sherlock swallowed. “-All -this? -Need -none. -If -you -told -me -and -not -try -fool -me -with -your own -fucking -death,” John ranted. 

I’ve said this before. What am I hoping for? 

Sherlock looked just like he had in the morgue, like a deer caught in the headlights. His wide eyes looked remarkably lost. John shook his head, ready to go. There was nothing to gain here. 

“I know,” Sherlock intoned just as John turned for the door. “A thousand apologies, John.” 

John turned back to see Sherlock push his hands into his shorts. He was too skinny. His eyes were red with sleep deprivation. It was only then his disguise registered. John blinked rapidly. Jean cut off shorts, American sneakers, and a hawaiian shirt. Sherlock’s face brightened under John’s stare. 

“-Wearing -what?” John asked finally, aghast. Sherlock covered his eyes with his palm, cutting off the sign language for a moment in his embarrassment. 

“-Disguise,” he signed one-handed. John laughed, only to settle, sad that the man couldn’t hear it. 

I miss you. 

Sherlock pulled his hand away from his eyes. 

Keep your eyes fixed on me. John swallowed down his anger. Sherlock’s expression sobered, reading it anyway. 

“How do I fix this, John?” he pleaded. John stared. Such a man. Such a brilliant, arrogant, excitable man, brought so low. 

Keep your eyes fixed on me. 

“-Don’t know,” John answered honestly, dropping his hands to his side, something softening in his anger. He wanted to be open to this man. 

I’m in love with you. 

“-You -genius. -Figure it out,” he pleaded back. Sherlock frowned. 

“Not really my area,” he said. John snorted out a laugh. Sherlock’s mouth quirked, still heavy with concern. John approached him cautiously, trying to figure out if he knew what he was doing. 

I’ll never get over him, he realized, stepping close to the taller man. Sherlock stiffened, peering down at him, but he bent with John’s hand on his neck. John kissed him chastely. 

Sherlock Bloody Holmes. 

John sighed, backing away from him. Sherlock opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. 

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” John said aloud before he turned for the door. 

“And because you are not as smart as me, you leave me,” Sherlock sneered. John turned back. Sherlock was standing straight again, his expression hard. John met his eyes, annoyed, and Sherlock seemed to melt back into his ridiculous clothes. 

“Your -partner,” John demanded. “-Past -you -use -me. -Now -you -make -partner -mean -something -real.” 

Sherlock swallowed, looking only more lost. John wanted to hit him for that look. The trouble of genius. It needed an audience, not a team. 

“Your -partner. -To -who -you -reveal -everything. -Who -you -trust -with -full -knowledge,” John demanded and left, closing the door behind himself. 

~~//~~ 

Jam. An entire restaurant quantity bottle of jam. John stared at the box on his countertop. One conclusion. Sherlock. The question of course, was why, which was always a questionable thing to ask about Sherlock’s actions. Though the man inevitably had them, they weren’t always worth deciphering. 

How do I fix this, John? 

You figure it out. 

John rested his elbows on the countertop and pushed his fingers into his hair. Sherlock Holmes was trying to get him back? Or at least courting his forgiveness. John stared at the chocolate he’d thrown in the rubbish bin, baffled. 

Could Moriarty know about this? The man had surprised them before. A contingency plan to torture him after Sherlock’s death? To make him think Sherlock was alive and missing him? 

Moriarty never noticed me, John thought, rejecting the idea. He was Sherlock’s pet, his plaything, never an enemy and never a threat. 

Sherlock Holmes, courting him. 

Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, can you do this for me? 

John snarled and grabbed the bottle to pitch it, only to hover over the bin, uncertain. Were they over, then? 

Keep your eyes fixed on me. 

But that was years ago, why would she still care? 

I prefer partners. 

John sighed. 

What am I supposed to do with this, Sherlock? He left it on the counter beside the bin. 

~~//~~ 

Sherlock flopped down on Sebastian Moran’s hotel bed, sure the man would not return, now. Due to John Watson. 

A kill shot over that distance, from that kind of a weapon, that’s a crack shot you’re looking for but not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all so clearly he’s acclimatized to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger though so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel. 

He should have agreed immediately. His partner. Who he could trust with full knowledge. He had trusted Molly Hooper and not John Watson, in a matter of death and violenc? Arrogant. Sherlock hissed between his teeth. Why had he been so arrogant? 

John had just killed a man. Sherlock couldn’t run after him, not when John was so skilled at disappearing into the woodwork, a non-threatening passerby. He couldn’t call attention to him. Damn it, but he’d lost his chance. Sherlock punched Moran’s pillow and flopped onto it again. He needed to sleep. Then he could move on John Watson. 

~~//~~ 

A man slammed into John that afternoon, apparently running for the bus stop, though no buses came at three o’clock. John checked for his wallet and phone immediately but, finding both in place, he continued on his walk toward the park. Still, caution kept him striding around the landscaped gravel paths, canceling his appointment stalking his killer. He was too accustomed to reconnoissance to attempt to rush it. 

He was grateful for it, twenty minutes later, when sitting on a park bench, he found an extra mobile phone in his pocket. John sighed, staring at the unopened text message already on the mobile. Sherlock, Mycroft or an enemy. Assuming Mycroft didn’t count as an enemy, now. John wasn’t convinced. Did he want to get involved in that again? 

John held the phone between his palms, uncertain. Sherlock Holmes. That utter madman he’d loved so much. Or a quiet, peaceful life without controversy or betrayal. 

-We -finished. He’d meant that. All of it. The cases, the sign language, the relationship. Over, if Sherlock would let him be in grave danger and unaware of it. John would never live a life where he was only safe if he did what he was told and stayed where he was put. 

But if he’s learned? John wondered, flicking on the display to show the unfamiliar phone number. He pushed the phone back into his pocket. He had no guarantee the phone was Sherlock’s doing, and he had a killer to murder. 

~~//~~ 

**: Did you ever consider maybe you should stop trying to be the hero? :** Mycroft. Apparently he’d finally caught up. Sherlock shoved his phone back into his pocket. It wasn’t wise to have it out anyway, huddled under a bridge where any of his homeless network could pass by. They’d sell information to him but he had no illusions that they wouldn’t sell it just as readily to somebody else. His phone buzzed again. Sherlock huddled sulkily in his stolen hotel blankets. 

It buzzed again. John, maybe? Sherlock pulled it out. 

**: Tell him where your cocaine is :**

Sherlock snarled and shoved his phone away again. Self-serving prat. 

-Your -partner. -To -who -you -reveal -everything. 

That hadn’t been a suggestion. John’s eyes had burned into his, furious. 

-Past -you -used -me. True. Sherlock swallowed, regret threatening to swamp him. How had he forgotten, that John would give up anything for the danger, would do anything for his friends’ safety. He could have told John about his plan, keep his partner, rather than just keeping him safe. The selfish route, that John would still love him for. 

But then people do get so sentimental about their pets. Sherlock flinched and pulled himself deeper into his blankets. He was risking Joh’s life, texting him. Wasn’t that enough for the man? 

Sherlock stared at the blank phone, knowing he’d missed the point. 

-Your -partner. 

Damn it, Mycroft would be smug for years after this. But only if it worked. Sherlock held the phone between his fingers, deciding he was in fact desperate enough to take one of his brother's suggestions. 

~~//~~ 

The trouble with being a sit and wait predator for a sit and wait predator was it got incredibly boring. John held the phone in his hands, glaring at the unknown message, beginning not to care if it came from an enemy or a friend if only it’d be entertaining. Facing another hour of suppressing sneezing attic dust, John opened it. 

**:Is it possible to shoot a man with a shotgun from three blocks away?:**

John relaxed, pleased. Sherlock. 

Like it used to be. Was this Sherlock’s solution, then? John doubted it would work. He didn’t mind not knowing Sherlock’s information. He minded being used. 

Was he going to accept this continued contact? 

How do I fix this, John? He’d told Sherlock what to do but then he wouldn’t let him? John wanted to kick himself. He never should have offered Sherlock the chance. 

But sitting in the dark, so very alone, he wanted to answer it. He missed his friend, despite it all. 

It’d been a week since Sherlock had gotten him the phone, though. Hardly a prompt answer. 

**:Sorry. Didn’t get this. Do you still need to know?:**

A moment later, his screen lit up again. 

**:No:**

Well, then. John leaned against the wall behind him and settled in to wait. His screen lit up again. 

**:Are you after Dyachenko?:**

John checked the hallway outside the closet again. 

**:My cocaine is sculpted into fake bones and hidden in my broken heat vent:**

John stared at the message, shocked. 

Full knowledge. Sherlock understood? Or someone else understood and Sherlock obeyed their advice. It didn’t matter overly much. Sherlock was trying. He felt like he could breathe again. 

Are we really going to get past this? 

**:Yes. Dyachenko.:** He answered. 

**:Ask her about Millicent Munroe; what was her ISAP passcode?:**

John blinked, his heart starting to race. Could he have it all again? Mystery, adventure, danger? Partners with the most fascinating mind he’d ever met, lovers with his best friend? 

**:I’ll need leverage:** he texted back, trusting Sherlock had these mobile messages secured. They were on a case again. John couldn’t stop smiling. 

**:Tell her Maryann.:**

John swallowed, his joy melting. Dirty work. 

**:And I’m supposed to trust you that I’m doing the right thing, am I?:** he asked. The silence dragged on uncomfortably. John checked the hallway outside the closet, listening for the sound of high heeled boots. 

**:Yes:** Sherlock answered. **:And I will explain everything later:** John breathed again. 

**:Alright** he answered and pushed his phone back into his pocket. 

**:Twelve differing bank records. How do I tell which is honest? SH:**

**:Ask an accountant.:**

Sherlock didn’t respond. John laughed, wondering if the arrogant fool had taken his advice, and made his way to his latest assassin’s flat. He’d send all the pictures to Sherlock. 

**:Dyachenko complete:** he texted, along with the pictures. He had no more names left, no more targets. Was he supposed to return to the clinic and wait, now? That sounded infuriating. 

I’ll be waiting for him, John reminded himself, striding out of Dyachenko’s flat as casually as he could. Sherlock Holmes would be coming home. To shock the hell out of Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. 

They were worried about him, John knew. He spent too much time avoiding people, too much time wallowing in grief. Waiting for a kill. Perhaps they would think he was starting to heal, seeing him more often now. 

We’ll get past this, he thought, closing his eyes for a moment of reflection before starting his way back to 221B. Sherlock would be coming home. His phone buzzed. John waited until he was out of sight of any cameras, hidden in an alley. 

**:12 Farren Avenue. Could you observe it, see if it’s a man’s or woman’s address? I believe I’ve found our money launderer:** Sherlock texted. John grinned. 

**:On my way:**

****  


**The End**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Kill a Mockingbird](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2685221) by [GwendolynnFiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynnFiction/pseuds/GwendolynnFiction)




End file.
